


Poisoned

by IJustDontFeelIt



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 05:25:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4167609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IJustDontFeelIt/pseuds/IJustDontFeelIt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam knew it was completely irrational, but sometimes he thought he could feel the blood traveling throughout his body. It felt disgusting. Unclean. Wrong. Those were the days when he needed to remind himself to breathe, because all he could focus on was the poison that had been running through his veins since he turned six months old.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poisoned

**Author's Note:**

> This is old, written about a year ago, touched a few things up. I think I still like it. Takes place in s7. Very Sam-centric. I originally posted this on FF.net, y'know, back when it was still cool.

Sam can categorize the quality of his days as 'good' or 'bad'. There are no 'okay' days. It's not complex. It does not require any thinking on his part. He can usually tell what kind of day it's going to be the moment he wakes up each morning. Instinct, maybe. He's never been able to figure it out.

Good days are the most common. They are days when he can focus on what's in front of him. Any feelings of filthiness can be brushed off and ignored about as easily and efficiently as breathing. He does not get distracted on hunts and he can listen to the medical examiner when they inspect a victim. He can slay a demon and not even bat an eye.

On some days, though, he feels like an asthmatic who's come down with a nasty case of pneumonia. He knows it's completely irrational, but sometimes he thinks he can  _feel_  the blood traveling throughout his body. It feels disgusting and unclean.  _Wrong._  Those are the days where he needs to remind himself to breathe, because all he can focus on is the poison that has been running through his veins since he turned six months old. Because why breathe when you're infected with something so dark? Killing demons on days like those does not give him his usual satisfaction. It almost feels immoral, like he was slaughtering his own kind.

Today is a bad day.

White noise is useless. The sound of the TV is worse than the silence, because he knows he's trying to distract himself. He'll end up focusing so hard on  _trying_ to focus that he won't even realize that the attempt is futile, and then he feels even worse than before.

Sam's not stupid. He understands that wallowing in self-pity is only going to make him hate himself even more, but he can't help it.

He scratches absently at his arm. It's pointless, of course. That itchy, painful feeling hidden under layers of skin isn't real. Phantom, he thinks it's called. The sensation reminds him of a rash, except no amount of skin cream can help him. He remembers that siren he and Dean hunted a few years ago.  _Supernatural STD_ , Dean had remarked. Recalling that conversation, Sam laughs bitterly. It's not funny.

The infection inside him might not be an STD, but it sure as hell felt like it sometimes. Irritating and stressful. _Dirty_.

The motel they're staying at isn't as bad it could be. At least this shithole has room to walk around, and clean sheets. The window is pretty decent sized too, but the faded orange wallpaper is more than a little sickening, and is giving him a headache.

"The color reminds you of the cage, don't it Sam?"

Sam stiffens. Letting out a sigh, he turns away from the hallucination and pulls a chair up to stare out the window. Outside, snow is falling heavily. Not surprising, considering it's mid-December and they're in Maine. The snowfall should seem peaceful, but the melancholy he was already feeling deepens into despair.

Lucifer is next to him now. His eyes hold an evil glint, but he murmurs, "Poor Sam. Why do you always have to feel this way?"

Glowering, Sam remains silent. He knows what's coming. It's no longer a shock anymore when his delusions bring this up; no longer terrifying when Lucifer says in a sympathetic and dangerously soft voice, "You know you don't have to live like this. You've got guns stashed all over the place."

Sam never likes to admit it, but Lucifer is right. He could end it all with a single pull of the trigger, if he wanted to. And sometimes, like right now, he really wants to.

A sinister whisper, "Then why don't you?"

_It's not that simple._  Sam doesn't dare speak out loud. He's afraid of what the words will sound like. Hearing the pathetic desperation in his voice will only make him feel worse.

"Make it that simple." Not a command, but an encouragement. Lucifer stopped being commanding months ago. Instead, he's become empathetic and Sam realizes just how dangerous that is. He feels more compelled to listen to soft voices and understanding eyes.

Maybe it's because he's a coward, or maybe he can't leave Dean alone in a world as corrupt as this, but he knows that he can't do it. No matter how tired he gets, or how much he hates himself for everything he's done, he knows he can't do it as long as Dean is alive.

"It's always Dean, isn't it?" Lucifer mutters. "It's not like you won't see him again. Soul mates, remember? You get to share a heaven? Happily ever after?"

Sam's chest still does a funny fluttering thing whenever he's reminded that Dean is his soul mate. He wonders what it would be like to be dead, for real. No more getting dragged back down to earth, no more demon deals. Paradise, maybe? Sam's not sure he believes in paradise anymore, but the thought is nice.

Damn. Leave it to Lucifer to make killing yourself feel like fucking Christmas.

Besides, he's not so sure he has a place in Heaven anymore. Maybe when he dies, he's gonna end up right back in Lucifer's cage.

Grimacing, he brings his hand up to his chest and digs his thumb into the unhealed scar there. The pain is sharp and he inhales deeply, not quite a gasp, but it does the trick and the hallucination flickers and then disappears.

He turns to look out the window again. The snow is picking up, falling heavier and faster than it was just a few minutes ago. He remembers the weather report this morning, and can vaguely recall a middle aged woman on the TV warning the public about a blizzard that's estimated to hit at around 5:30 PM.

Looking around, he locates the clock on the wall. 5:09 PM. Jesus, is it already that late? He could have sworn it was just past noon.

Another irritating symptom of his "bad days" is that he loses track of time. Immediately, his thoughts stray to Dean and his heart beats a little faster. His brother had gone out a few hours ago for a supply run, and he still isn't back. Granted, the nearest store is 45 minutes away, but that doesn't stop him from letting out a pathetic whine of concern.

Now that Lucifer is gone, Sam almost regrets sending him away. He can appreciate being alone on most days, but days like today leave him in desperate need of attention. When left to his own devices, his mind wanders back and again, he feels that sickeningly impure substance crawling sluggishly throughout his body.

He shudders.

He remembers an argument he had had with Dean long ago.  _I've got demon blood in me, Dean! This disease, pumping through my veins and I can't ever rip it out or scrub it clean._ God, that must have been what, 3 years ago? He can't remember.

He considers his words now. It's funny how you never really know the full extent of what you're saying until it's over and done with. He wonders what it would feel like to actually be able to wash your blood clean. A gift from God, he muses, except God's not here so he shoves the thought into the ever-growing figurative pile of empty dreams.

The door clicks behind him. Half of him wants to jump up and pull Dean into his arms and say  _dude do you have any beer._  The other half is telling him to stay down, you pathetic child. Can't you see he's got his arms full.

Oh well.

Standing up, he walks toward his brother and helps him with the bags. "What took you so long?" Sam complains.

Dean snorts. "It's snowing like hell out there, man. I didn't want to wreck my car. Also, didn't you hear about the blizzard?" Sam nods. "Well I figured we're going nowhere soon, so I got us enough food and stuff to last us at least a week."

Aw fuck. "We should have chosen a better motel to stay in," Sam jokes halfheartedly, eyes straying to that ugly yet all too familiar faded orange wallpaper. Faded orange was the only color he could see when Lucifer and Micheal decided it was time to give him his daily oops-we-set-you-on-fire. They always pretended it was an accident for some reason, and only 'put him out' when he was a shivering mess on the ground. Since he could never die, he could burn anywhere between ten minutes and two hours, depending on how much Lucifer wanted to play. By the time the torment ended, his vision would be so impaired by the pain and terror that the brilliant flames melting his skin would be muted down to an unimpressive hue of orange.

Dean must have caught the fearful expression on Sam's face, because he takes a step toward him and puts a hand on Sam's shoulder. "What is it?"

Swallowing, Sam lets out a shaky breath. "The wallpaper," he says quietly. He feels his eyes watering slightly.  _Don't cry, idiot._

Dean looks momentarily confused, and then understanding lights up his eyes. He's learned by now that Sam has a wide variety of triggers, and he knows that they're usually pretty odd and not what you'd expect to see from a trauma victim. "What the hell did they do to you," Dean murmurs, almost too quiet to hear, but Sam catches it anyway.

He knows it shouldn't, but the words sting a little. It sounded a little cynical, but Sam figures he's just being too sensitive and brushes it off. Instead, he watches as Dean starts tearing away the wallpaper.

"What are you-"

"It's okay. The color is ugly as shit anyway," Dean replies. "I figure we'll owe the motel an extra 50 bucks, but we can win that back at the next pool game."

The gray walls behind the paper are hideous, but Sam can live with that. He feels a rush of gratitude toward his brother and does his best to put on a smile.

"Thanks," he says, but his voice is a little hoarse.

"Don't sweat it." After Dean discards the wallpaper under one of the beds and out of sight, he goes back to rummaging through the bags. He tosses Sam a beer, and then his face breaks out into a huge grin. "Oh, dude! Guess what I found!" When Sam tilts his head, Dean pulls out a box. "Blue label!" The excitement on his face is adorable, but Sam is too busy starting at the box.

"Holy shit man, where'd you score that?" Sam asks, only half aware that he sounds as though he just witnessed the second coming of Christ.

"Liquor store on the way back from the supermarket. I wanted to get us a nice bottle of whiskey that would last until the storm blew over and the snow clears enough for us to get out of here, and it was on  _sale!_ " Dean's eyes are practically glowing. "Only 60 bucks. You wouldn't believe how lucky I was to get this. I mean, when have you ever heard of Johnnie Walker Blue selling for 60 bucks? There were only two left when I found this. Hey, paws off!"

Sam retracts the hand that was reaching for the bottle when Dean slaps it away. "What?" he snaps, feeling a little defensive.

Dean's eyes are bright with annoyance. "This is not your average, everyday run-of-the-mill drink, dude. This is gold, and we are not gonna waste it all away. Not tonight."

Rolling his eyes, Sam scoffs. "Might as well frame it and carry it around for the rest of our lives. Hang it up in every motel we stay in. We'll just stare at it." To be completely honest, Sam could really use a drink right now, and the sight of the bottle is making his mouth water. Cracking open his beer, he takes a long swig. Dean's stubborn, so Sam knows that this will have to suffice.

"Can't frame a bottle, dumbass." Dean retorts, but his eyes are smiling, so Sam decides any possibility of a real argument is gone.

Sam tosses Dean a small grin so his brother knows that there's no hard feelings, and then he goes back to staring out the window. "Jesus," he sighs as he watches the snow fall. Only, it's not really falling anymore. More accurately, it's hurtling through the air at about 70 miles an hour. Again, he feels that familiar pull, deep underneath his skin. He feels nauseous suddenly.

_Keep staring, Sam. The snow obviously makes you feel so much better._

Sam's not sure if the sarcastic voice in his head was his own, or if it was Lucifer's. Either way, he didn't like it.

"Looks like the blizzard's hit," Dean says matter-of-factly, also glancing out the window. Sam stands up and closes the curtains. Dean looks as if he's about to protest, but maybe he sees something on Sam's face because he closes his mouth and doesn't argue. Instead, he says, "At least the motel's warm."

"Yeah." But Sam still feels cold. Dean looks warm, though, so Sam decides the cold isn't real and crosses the room to sit next to Dean on the bed. He can never tell if what he's feeling is real or not these days. He hasn't been sure since he started seeing Satan playing golf in Bobby's house. Maybe the heat of the cage altered his brain's perception of what is warm and what isn't. Maybe that's why he always feels cold.

Dean puts an arm around Sam's waist and pulls him closer. "You alright? You seem kinda down."

"Bad day," Sam whispers. That's all he needs to say, because Dean knows what that means. Sam leans his head against Dean's and closes his eyes. Comforting, he thinks. Not necessarily a remedy, because not even Dean is therapeutic on days like today. But comforting, all the same.

"You know, I don't care what's in your veins, Sam."

_Yeah, I know._ He doesn't feel any better. Words can't help him, because he sees them as they are. They're just words. After all, how can sounds heal? Sam never understood that. He remembers watching a TV show a few years ago; a psychologist explaining that the key to healing was to talk. He tried to talk about it, of course. God only knows how many times Sam's tried to force Dean into talking about his feelings. He always gets brushed off.  _No chick-flick moments, Sammy. Focus on the job, Sammy._  He supposes words don't do much for a lot of people. Not hunters, anyway.

When Sam doesn't answer, Dean turns his head and kisses Sam on the mouth, full of fondness and appreciation. Again, it's only comforting. Frustratingly comforting. It's no secret that the bond between Sam and Dean is a little more than just brotherly, which is part of the reason why Sam finds himself needing more.

Not just kissing, or heated make-out sessions when they're desperate and lonely. Not just the sex. He's not sure exactly what more he needed, but he did know that he was tired of feeling this way. If Dean could do the impossible and cure him of this disease, then maybe that would be it. It'd be over.

_But nothing ever really ends, does it?_

The room is darker now that the curtains are shut. By now, the wind had picked up, so much so that they can hear the  _whoosh_ ing that is, no doubt, toppling over small trees. Sam doubts it'd get strong enough to deal too much major damage, but from the way the lights in the motel room are flickering, it'll settle at least a good score.

Sam takes another long swig of his beer, surprised when he realizes it's already three quarters of the way gone. Irritated, he downs the rest of it. It doesn't do much for him.

"Slow down," Dean cautions.

"Why should I?" Sam growls. "You never care how much I drink."

"Because," his brother retorts. "you're gonna be a pain to deal with if you get drunk and I'm stuck here and can't leave."

Of course, Sam feels another flush of hurt. Irrational. He knows that Dean doesn't really mind him on the few occasions that he gets drunk. In fact, his brother sometimes enjoys it, tells him that he's 'much more fun and less bitter.' Although, Sam's not really bitter. His outlook on life, generally, is corrupt, but not too pessimistic. That's only on days like today, where he's more focused on blood than saving people. It's just as well that they're not hunting anything right now. "It's just one beer," he mumbles.

"Yeah, cause you sure as hell weren't gonna go for another one."

A hot flash of anger curls deep in his belly.  _So what?_ "You know what, Dean, fuck you." He breaks away from Dean's side and stands up. "If you knew what it was like..." he stops.

Dean is staring at him, a mixture of confusion and concern on his face and that's when Sam realized that he's crying. That only makes him more angry, and he's about to break something when he's engulfed in Dean's arms.

Frustrated, he tries to pull away, but Dean's not having it and holds on tighter. When Sam finally gives up, he's sobbing into Dean's neck while cursing himself for being such a baby.

A few minutes pass, and Sam's sobs ease, but there are still tears flowing down his face.

"I can't help you, Sam. You know this, right?" Dean asks. There's a note of careful regret in his voice. Sam knows how much it hurts Dean to know that he's powerless to help his little brother.

Sniffling, Sam mutters a "yeah." This has been going on for years now, ever since Azazel told him about the demon blood, and the demon army, and his supposed 'destiny' to become the boy king. That was the day it all fell away for him, and his 'bad days' when he first found out were actually 'bad weeks' because of the shock of the revelation. He guesses he should feel grateful that the bad days only come around only every so often, but why should he feel grateful when no one else in the world feels this way?  _Only me,_ he thinks bitterly.  _The last of the special children, the only freak left in this god-forsaken world and I'm_ still _alive._

He wonders why that is.

 


End file.
